Dear Diary
by LeahAndre'x
Summary: Carla's diary, from when she was a teen. Rated T due to sensitive topics which will be explored more in future chapters..


Carla sits on her rusty old bed cross-legged, flicking through the empty pages of the journal she'd received. Not knowing what to write, Carla looked around her dingy bedroom for inspiration. Nothing. Flicking through the empty contents once more, the fifteen year old stopped on the front cover, making out the word 'Diary', even through the discolouration. Sighing, she picked up her nearly used pen, and began to let her thoughts flow out onto the discolouration of the once pristine, white sheets of paper.

_Dear Diary,_

_I don't know what to write. It's weird really. Carla Sinclair, the loud mouth girl from school, not knowing what to say. Do you know something? If I'd made an effort with this diary, I'm sure it'd be well interesting. Our English teacher Mr. Barlow, says I've got a very vidid imagination, though I'm not sure that Kenneth Barlow meant it in a good way. I hate my school, though Ken Barlow's okay, I admit. I'm Manchester's bike according to some pathetic scum, those older kids thinking they're better than anyone else - I don't think so! I don't see the point in a diary, really. It's just like talking to yourself. And what do those posh nob psychiatrists say? Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. Not that I care though. It's already as if I'm gone mad. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't drink. Well, if vodka's my only choice of drink I'd prefer not to have it, thanks. And maybe I can't eat because my mum's spending all the benefits on booze and God knows what else - Some mother eh? Letting us three kids starve, while she slowly kills herself with booze. Y'know what? I'd rather be taken into care than live in this shit hole any longer. I can't stand it. My brother had to nick this diary for me, supposed to be an exercise book for school but I hardly go anymore. I suppose Rob was trying to be nice though. He looks out for me and Daz. It's like Rob's our father figure, Darren and I the childen. We don't have a Dad. Mum got shot of him after she found him sneaking around with some child, barely older than me. I used to wish he'd have taken us with him, but I know it wouldn't have been much difference after what Darren told me. He's a few years younger than me, so I don't even think he understood fully, but he saw him. That piece of scum beat my mother to a pulp, no care in the world. And do you know why? She spent our benefit money of food. Can you believe that? For once, she'd considered her kids needs, only to get punished for it. I hate him. He used to sit me on his lap, playing all sorts of tricks with me - the usual, _Got Your Nose, _that sort of stuff, only I knew why he was being so friendly, and not beating the life out of Mum - he was drunk. I knew he must've been drinking cider, because that's the only drink that doesn't make Dad mad. Everything else, Vodka, JD, Whiskey, they made Dad's temper fly out of control - not a pretty sight, I assure you that. If you know Tony Sinclair, you know never to start a fight with him when he's drunk, which is quite often. This lad, Josh from the block of flats next door, feeble old Josh, he tried to chat up Mum - he paid for it, believe me. Dad got done for GBH, years inside. After he came out, he made all sorts of promises to us, to Mum, me, Rob, Darren - my Dad does not keep promises. Mum was a fool to believe them, saying he'd go to rehab, turn over a new leaf, get a job. A week after getting released, he was back to his old ways. Even I witnessed his attack on Darren - 8 years old for God's sake, being tormented and abused by his father. It's pathetic. __He __is pathetic. _

_Oh I can't believe it now. This is getting ridiculous. I come downstairs, thinking Mum's come back from doing the shopping. Ha. Like she would. I was a fool to think she hadn't stocked up on her booze, which is exactly what she's done. Jack Daniels, Smirnoff, WKD a bottle a red and even six cider cans sit on our kitchen worktop. I have to restrain myself from not taking a sip. I've had a few vodka shots before, but I'm not really into booze like most fifteen year olds. Most of the kids in school drink, do drugs. I don't care though. I've got _proper _friends. Our Michelle's lovely, I love that daft mare to pieces, I do. I love our Liam like mad, the cheeky sod he can be, but I've got Paul too. He's my boyfriend. I suppose I love 'im in a way, but it's not proper love. Sometimes I think I've gotten the wrong Connor brother. Liam's cute. No - wrong adjective. Beyond gorgeous, completely hilarious, and I assure you that you always have a great time with Liam Connor. I'd dump Paul for him in a heartbeat, but there's only one problem - he's got a girlfriend._

On that last line, Carla allows her pen to drop from her grasp, falling to the bed. She glances up to the clock. It's eight, and she's meant to be meeting Michelle and Liam down the park. Paul's got soccer practise on, and Michelle is likely to spend her time sticking her tongue down Dean's throat, which means that Liam will be on his own. Making a beeline to her wardrobe, Carla rakes through it, looking for her best black, tight mini skirt, along with a revealing lacy black top. Carla just _hopes_ that Alyssa won't be there - Liam's girlfriend. She hates Carla, for some reason. _Maybe she sees the way I look at him? Wants to stake her claim? _Before over thinking the possibility of Alyssa being there, Carla pulls the tight clothes she has set out, along with killer heels, which add to Carla's look of perfection. Grabbing her bag, Carla hurries out of the house, ignoring her Mother's shouts aimed at the innocent fifteen year old.

**a.n/ I'd originally planned for this fic to just be extracts from Carla's diary, but I think I'll turn it into a full fic. Reviews are welcome, I'd love to hear your feedback! Good or bad reviews are welcome, thought appreciated!**

**Thanks for reading, **

**Leah.**


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